The Weight of Routine

The seven AM alarm blared, a jarring intrusion into a dream half-forgotten. I dragged myself out of bed, the familiar grind of another day already a weight on my shoulders. An hour later, I jostled with weary faces on the bus, their eyes reflecting the same hollow routine. Eight hours in front of a screen, the fluorescent light sucking the life out of the day. The journey home was a blur, my exhaustion a heavy cloak until I collapsed onto the bed, a crumpled mess.

Just before sleep, with the fan whirring rhythmically above, fragmented thoughts would flood in. Was it three years ago? The regret gnawed at me, a constant echo of a decision that had locked me in this monotonous existence.

Another day. I trudged off the bus, my leather briefcase a burdensome anchor. Hands in pockets, head hung low, the weight of the day already a familiar friend. A wayward gust of wind sent a scrap of paper swirling. It clung stubbornly to the toe of my shoe, mirroring the frustration stuck to my insides.

Annoyance flared. I kicked out, but the paper clung on, a defiant echo of my own trapped existence. Defeated by this trivial enemy, I bent down, a flicker of triumph at finally wresting it free. The paper balled tightly in my fist, I aimed for the dustbin.

The wind had other plans. It snatched the paper ball, tossing it away like a rejected free throw. A curse hovered on my lips, ready to be hurled at the uncaring wind, but a cheerful voice stopped me.

"You shouldn't do that."

The voice belonged to a little girl in a pristine white dress, her hair adorned with a bright ribbon. "Sorry," I mumbled, the word heavy on my tongue.

"Sorry doesn't clean the street, mister," she said with a seriousness that belied her age. Her small foot tapped impatiently, and it hit me – she expected action.

Defensive instinct kicked in. "It wasn't my paper," I said, pushing away the prickle of guilt. "And I did throw it away."

Her eyes followed the wind-tossed paper. "The street isn't a trash can, mister. You seem like a smart person."

I love kids. Giggling on balconies, chasing each other to school, their sticky-faced joy warms my heart. But today, a different side of me surfaced. "Look," I sighed, exasperation coloring my voice, "if it bothers you so much, pick it up yourself."

"Mister," she said, her voice gaining a hint of concern, "what's wrong?"

"You wouldn't understand," I mumbled, a hollow echo of defeat. Shamefaced, I pivoted and walked away, leaving her sigh hanging in the air.

I knew I was being a jerk. But when life throws punch your way, it has a way of hardening your skin, turning you into the very person you never wanted to be.

As I walked on, guilt gnawed at the edges of my anger. A glance back revealed the girl – and the cursed paper – gone. Alone, I stood there, the weight of my routine heavy in the air. 

Who had I become?